Mr. Spencer laughed again. Drat, the man!
“A kiss isn’t going to tell me anything.” Heat seeped up her neck. Discussing something as intimate as kissing with a man such as Stone Spencer, of all people, made her feel warm all over. She removed her fan from her sleeve, snapped it open, and waved it beneath her chin.
She would never discuss such a topic as romantic relations with any of her actual suitors. Doing so would be most inappropriate. And if she was to land an appropriate husband, she’d best be careful to behave in an appropriate manner.
Unfortunately, knowing that did absolutely nothing to curb her curiosity. And for as long as she’d worn her hair up, she’d been curious.
Curious about all of it.
Her mother’s explanations were vague and dismissive at best, and even her recently married sister Bethany refused to share any real details regarding the act of consummation. Bethany did, however, flush beet red before changing the subject.
Tabetha sensed that she was wearing her down though and would ask her again. A girl needed to know these things, after all.
But that did not mean she should be discussing them with her brother’s cow-handed untitled friend.
Mr. Spencer turned so that he was facing her. “A kiss would reveal that you are not physically compatible with him.”
“That’s ridiculous.” He certainly was arrogant for being a second son.
And… cocksure of himself. And as much as she hated to admit it, he was also inordinately handsome. Tabetha ignored the shiver that ran down her spine.
He shrugged, as though he didn’t care if she believed him. Which had the effect of irritating her almost as much as the shiver did.
“You’re terribly certain of yourself for a person who refuses to support his opinion with any reasoning.” A part of Tabetha, the very proper part that was intent upon becoming a duchess, niggled her for encouraging him. She ought to return to the ballroom without delay. She ought to locate her mother, or Bethany or Felicity, and pose prettily on one of the chairs while waiting for her next partner to find her. She glanced down at the dance card looped to her wrist and felt a burst of excitement—the Duke of Culpepper. And it was the supper dance. Afterward, he would lead her into the dining hall.
If he asked to walk her in the gardens, she would accept. And if he attempted to kiss her, she would allow it. Of course, she would be physically compatible with Culpepper. Mr. Spencer thought he knew everything… Well, he was wrong on this count.
“You’ll learn someday.” His mocking voice broke into her musings, implying that his own experience went far beyond hers and covered all the erotic delights London had to offer.
“Not from the likes of you.” She hated not having the last word with this vexing creature. And it wasn’t as though she could easily shelve such a disconcerting issue. All manner of scenarios of Mr. Spencer’s carnal exploits floated through Tabetha’s brain—scenarios that depicted the blasted man doing things she probably shouldn’t be thinking about.
That she most definitely should not be thinking about. She needed to return inside so that she could focus all of her efforts on Culpepper. The man who would make her a duchess.
“I shouldn’t have brought the subject up.” He sighed, and she couldn’t tell if it was a regretful or dismissive one.
“And yet you did. But no need to concern yourself. It’s not as though I’m a child. I’ll simply learn these things on my own.”
“In all seriousness, My Lady, I’d rather you not.” He looked almost pained. “At least not until your brother has you in hand again.”
In hand again? Blast him!
“You’re welcome to return inside now.” Her blood boiled at his condescending attitude. “I am perfectly capable of protecting myself.”
“You are, are you?” Mr. Spencer crossed his arms in front of him. “And what would you do if a gentleman demands more than a kiss? What if your brother or I aren’t nearby to step in?”
“I’ll plant him a facer. That’s what I’ll do.” Unless the man is Culpepper.
Mr. Spencer did not look amused at her assertion, nor did he look impressed.
Rather, he tilted his head and eyed her up and down, making her squirm. It was almost as though he was considering one of the thoroughbreds at Newmarket. Before she could chastise him for it, he stepped away from the wall.
“Show me.” He dropped his arms and planted his feet shoulders’ distance apart. Of course, he would challenge her on this. When he wasn’t smothering her, she knew he spent most of his time at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Academy. Likely, he was an honorary member of the Pugilist Club.
There hadn’t been a single day that she hadn’t noticed fresh cuts on one, if not both, of his hands—once, near his eye.
“You don’t seriously expect me to hit you?”
But he nodded. “Wouldn’t hurt for you to learn a few things about defending yourself.” He lifted his chin. “Go ahead. Take your best shot.”
This was ridiculous.
Although not at all proper, the prospect of slamming her fist into Stone Spencer’s face was tempting enough for her to delay her return inside. Double the satisfaction if she could erase the smirk from his mouth.
She squeezed her fingers around her thumb, surprised to feel her heart racing. “You won’t hit me back?”
Anger flared in his eyes. “I’ll pretend you didn’t just ask me that.” Another flick of his chin. “Go on then. Give me your best.”
It had sounded so simple initially, the idea of throwing a punch. And it wasn’t as though he hadn’t provided her with proper motivation. But when push came to shove, all in all, the notion of punching his face felt rather awkward—and not at all fitting of a lady.
“Come on now,” he goaded her.
She raised her fist and tensed her muscles, garnering courage.
“Oh, that’s going to do wonders, when he reaches for your bodice and places his other hand on your—”
Tabetha stepped forward and sent her hand flying before he could utter another insulting word.
But she experienced no satisfying thwack. The blighter had captured her wrist in midair.
“First of all,” he said as though she hadn’t just tried to hit him, “remove your thumb from inside your fist.” Keeping one hand wrapped around her wrist, he repositioned her fist with the other.
Her hand all but disappeared in his.
“Instead of spending the time teaching her students to converse properly, paint a tolerable landscape, and other such nonsense, Lady Agatha ought to provide her students on how to handle a suitor who gets out of hand.” Frowning, he nudged one of her feet with the toe of his boot. “Ah, yes, I can see we’re going to need to work on this. Perhaps we can stop somewhere when I take you driving tomorrow.”
“I’m not about to spar with you in Hyde Park during the driving hour.” Tabetha jerked her hand free, startled at the sparks of awareness his touch had sent through her. “I’m fine.”
“In the future, keep your thumb out. And don’t be afraid to use both hands. And step into it.” He illustrated his instructions, not quite on his toes, but with a bouncing step.
“If you can’t stop a punch, redirect it—deflect it.” He punched his hand toward her mockingly, and she waved a hand, pushing it away.
“There you go.” He teased her with another, tapping this one along her chin. “And don’t discount the value of ducking.”
She scowled at him. “Duck yourself, Stone Spencer.”
He grinned and then pretended to take another swing, barely grazing his fist along her chin. “Redirect and duck.”
He was enjoying this.
“I’ll remember that.”
He shot out a hand slowly, and she pushed it aside. She refused, however, to duck.
“Like that.” The dratted gent jerked his chin in approval.
“I’m returning inside now, Mr. Spencer.” If anyone were to catch her pretending to box with this blighter, her
reputation—which was only just recovering from her sister’s unfortunate scandal not quite a month before—could suffer irreparable harm.
And she didn’t want to keep the duke waiting.
Mr. Spencer ceased his dancing around and glanced toward the doors to the ballroom. She couldn’t help but notice his jaw ticking. “Run along then, My Lady. The next set is about to begin. We can’t have you spoiling your chance at becoming a duchess.”
He was right, and yet he couldn’t have sounded any more insulting.
She turned abruptly to go but his voice mocked her one last time.
“It won’t be worth it, you know.”
Tabetha froze. “What won’t be worth it?”
“Marrying Culpepper.”
Her heart dropped for an instant but then, more determined than ever, she marched back into the ballroom.
Because marrying a duke would be worth it. It had to be.
It was her destiny.
Chapter 2
Manly Pursuits
Barefoot and crouched over, Stone bounced on his toes, pinning his gaze on his sparring opponent. Forward, back, forward—Stone extended a few inches with his left hand and then lunged again with his right.
Mantis, however, managed to deflect the punch just enough that it only grazed his jaw.
Lucky for him.
“A little slow today,” Stone’s younger brother Peter called out. He occasionally came along to observe but never participated himself. As an accomplished cellist, he refused to jeopardize his hands for sport.
“Perhaps he’s mellowing,” Greys, the Marquess of Greystone, offered as he strolled into the boxing area, followed by Chaswick and Westerley, all three still outfitted in fencing garb, having concluded their matches next door. Both Chase and Westerley’s hair sprang out in all directions from wearing masks but Greys appeared impeccable, for all the world as though his valet had just finished dressing him.
Stone pivoted in the nick of time to dodge Mantis’s jab. Then he rolled to his left, at the same time throwing a right hook. To keep from breaking his opponent’s jaw, Stone relaxed the punch an instant before landing it. They were only sparring, after all.
“A late night at cards,” Westerley provided. “I appreciate you watching out for my sister, but seeing as I’ve returned, it’s no longer necessary, you know.”
Stone stepped forward, dragging his back foot behind him, and then back again, keeping his eyes pinned on Mantis, gauging his next move.
Last spring, he’d lost a bet to Westerley, an unwinnable one as he’d realized after the fact. His penalty, nonetheless, had been to watch over Lady Tabetha for Westerley until the Season concluded. And although the earl and his new countess had returned from their wedding journey earlier than planned, Stone intended to fulfill his obligation.
He might be a lot of things, but he wasn’t a welcher.
In addition to that, as long as he was keeping watch over Lady Tabetha, he could maintain possession of Westerley’s baby—a sporty, shiny yellow curricle. Which he’d arranged to use in a race a week from Saturday. No need to mention that just yet.
“Your sister is dangling after Culpepper,” Stone grunted and ducked.
None of them exhibited any surprise at his statement.
“I’ve warned her to stay away from him,” Westerley all but growled. “As has Bethany.”
“As has Lady Felicity.” Mantis punctuated his observation with a left jab. “But your sister refuses to listen.”
“Bethany says Lady Tabetha laughed at her concerns.” Chaswick rubbed his chin. “She’s afraid he’ll net her.”
“He won’t.” Stone tightened his muscles, exhaled, and threw his right cross. He made contact before he could draw back, and the resulting crack drew a groan from all four bystanders.
Mantis followed by landing a shallow jab.
“Have a care, Spencer,” Greys warned.
“You’re certain?” Chase all but ignored the action in the ring.
“Hold up.” Mantis stepped back and bent over, breathing heavily and then wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth.
“Apologies.” Stone backed off but his feet kept him shuffling around the ring, more to keep moving than anything else. “I’m taking her driving this afternoon. It’ll frustrate Culpepper. He’s likely to look elsewhere to fill his pockets if landing Lady Tabetha becomes too complicated.”
Stone paused, located a towel, and scrubbed it down his face and then over his chest and abdomen. The apparel, or lack thereof, that fighters wore for a bout was only one of the reasons his mother disapproved of bare-knuckled boxing—the other reason being that he occasionally sported bruises and blackened eyes.
Stone enjoyed that it was the one place where nothing mattered but the man himself; his strength, agility, and ability to predict the other fighter’s next move.
“Blackheart’s sources found records proving that Culpepper’s wife died in childbirth, along with the babe.” Greystone crossed his legs, holding his sword like a cane. “So at least the man isn’t a murderer.”
Westerley tipped his head to the side, eliciting a cracking sound that had Greys visibly flinching. “My sister deserves better than some lout who only wants her for her dowry.”
“Records can be forged,” Stone noted to no one in particular. He had no intention of letting up. Trouble was, he doubted Lady Tabetha did either. He met Westerley’s gaze meaningfully. “I‘m not standing down, but keep a close eye on her at home.”
“You don’t think she’d do something stupid, do you?”
Mindful she was the man’s sister, Stone stopped short of rolling his eyes. Of course, she is going to do something stupid. It was only a matter of time. “She’s title hungry.”
Her brother winced. “I’ll speak with my mother. She could set Crabtree on her.” Mrs. Crabtree would likely frustrate Lady Tabetha to no end. The dragon of a woman had been employed by the dowager countess for as long as Stone could remember, and if she couldn’t keep the girl in check, then nobody could. “I guess I’ll have to pass on cards at White’s this afternoon.”
Mantis was rubbing himself down as well. “There’s a thoroughbred at Tattersalls I’d like to check out.” He turned to Chase.
The newly married baron nodded. “I’ve been wanting to purchase a gentle mount for Bethany.”
Stone met Peter’s eyes and grinned at that but didn’t go so far as to make the comment that danced on his tongue. Chaswick, himself, was not known for being a gentle mount.
“Have I mentioned how delighted I am that Bethany is your responsibility now?” Westerley smirked in Chaswick’s direction. “Not in a thousand years could I have imagined she was capable of such mayhem.” Then he frowned. “Tabetha’s looking to keep me busy enough.”
A gleam appeared in Chase’s eyes. “Worth it though, by God.” He shook his head. “And for the record, never tell Bethany she’s my responsibility. She’s my wife, my baroness, she’ll insist, never my responsibility.” He smiled. “I’m happy to allow her to go on thinking that. Because when she’s happy, I am happy.”
Stone tossed the towel over his shoulder. “I’ll leave the horseflesh to you gents then.” He needed to clean up, change, and then arrange for Westerley’s baby to be readied for an appearance in the park. And later, he’d drop in at Well’s Place, arrive early for his driving appointment. He wouldn’t put it past her to “accidentally” forget.
Peter followed him into the dressing area. “I’ve been offered an apprenticeship with Sir William Bickford-Crowden down in Brighton.”
Stone raised his brows at the announcement. From what he had gathered, apprenticing with the master musician was a considerable honor.
“It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Stone dabbed the towel beneath his arms and down his sides. Personally, Stone didn’t think Peter needed it. In his eyes, his brother was already one of England’s most talented cellists. “When do you leave? We’ll plan a night on the town to send you off.”
His brother waved a hand in the air. “Not necessary.” Then he grimaced. “I’ll head down next week. The terms have me working under him until just before Christmas. And if he deems me capable, I could be asked to tour with him.”
“Is that something you want?” Stone drew his linen shirt over his head. When his arm got stuck, Peter adjusted the fabric.
“I’d be a fool not to, but I’d be absent from England for close to two years.”
Stone paused and met his brother’s gaze. “Just be certain it’s what you really want.”
“It is,” Peter asserted with more confidence. “Of course, it is.”
Stone finished dressing and then headed outside, enjoying his brother’s company, conscious that he wouldn’t have it much longer. Because, of course, Peter would be asked to tour.
Unless, that was, he realized he wanted something more in his life than his music.
If only Lady Tabetha showed similar doubts as to her aspirations. It would make his life a good deal easier.
Two hours later, Stone handed the reins of Westerley’s curricle over to Creighton, his outrider, who would drive it around back and wait for him in the mews.
Wearing charcoal trousers, a gray jacket over a newly pressed linen shirt, and a white waistcoat, Stone was feeling a tad overdressed for a spring afternoon as he sounded the knocker at Well’s Place. The appointment was a worthy concession on his part, he reasoned, considering he would be effectively preventing Lady Tabetha from meeting with her duke.
“Mr. Spencer,” Mr. Bradley, Westerley’s butler, greeted him and stepped back to allow Stone to enter. “How are you this fine afternoon? Been to Gentleman Jackson’s, I see.”
Stone dabbed his fingers along his jaw, appreciating the familiar pain elicited from the one decent punch Mantis had landed, and grinned. “Indeed, I have. And excellent, Bradley old man. I couldn’t be better. You?”
“Very well, Sir, very well. His Lord and Ladyships are in the drawing room, with quite a few other guests.”
Cocky Mister: A Regency Cocky Gents Book Page 2
